


All on his mouth like liquor

by adropofred



Series: The Letterbox [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Bickering, Casual Sex, Cis Character, Come Swallowing, Desk Sex, Emotional Constipation, Finger Sucking, Friends With Benefits, Hair-pulling, Kissing, Laughter During Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Denial, Tattoos, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 08:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15190868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adropofred/pseuds/adropofred
Summary: Winter 2022 in the Hong Kong Shatterdome, things are starting to start to really suck—politics suck, the military sucks, reports suck—so Newt stays on theme and sucks Hermann.Like, literally.





	All on his mouth like liquor

**Author's Note:**

> I was talking with [Lyd](http://lydkyd-art.tumblr.com) about Hermann being a sweet chaste princess when it comes for asking for sex, and Newt bluntly going "Dude, we can't fuck, I just got inked," after taking an age to understand what Hermann wants.
> 
> So I wrote it.

It’s late—late enough that Newt is considering typing _is anyone even reading these anymore like we don't have a night crew in the labs how is there staff to read my fucking supplies use reports,_ but the budget cuts have been piling up enough as it is—late, _late_ , because no more night shifts and day shifts and blaming shit on Dr Nguyen, like when Hermann screeched at him for one single drop of kaiju blood on his precious handwritten notes, like, whatever, the stuff was neutralized, _Hermann_ , the year was 2022, stop using notebooks and chalkboards—

Right, Hermann, so—it’s late when Hermann marches over to Newt’s side of the lab, because Hermann marches everywhere, all clunking sounds from his cane to his glasses hitting the billions of buttons on his dozens of layers of clothing. Newt doesn't look up, because if Hermann required his immediate attention he would have yelled at him, or thrown a piece of chalk at him, or muttered until Newt caught on that Hermann was seeking human conversation. Or hacked into the computer Newt was currently using to open Notepad and type _Please stop jumping your leg up and down, LOCCENT might register the vibrations as an incoming attack_ , like he’s done once.

(for the record, Newt typed back _if my hitachi doesn't set off the sensors this won't_ , and lowered his screen to watch Hermann’s face twist through twenty-one different emotions like a bugging android, drinking in the sight like a smooth whisky.)

Newt is typing _PPDC, Gloves, Blue-Resistant, Latex, Size M,_ when Hermann rounds his cluttered desk and sets one hand on Newt’s hip.

It takes Newt four minutes and Hermann sliding his thumb into the waistband of his pants to get the message. In his defense, he’s trying to remember how many _Masks, Respiratory, Blue-Resistant_ , he’s gone through in the last month, and besides, Hermann has this weird habit of never using his mouth to ask for sex. He’ll stand behind Newt or sit very close to him, nose at his neck or brush his pinky to Newt’s thigh, all very Victorian and blank-faced but for the blushing tips of his ears. It's sort of cute in a weird way, like most things Hermann does, especially since they've been doing whatever it is they're doing that they don't really talk about for nearly two years now, not long after they’d both been assigned to Hong Kong.

Newt stares at the blinking cursor, focuses on Hermann’s thumb rubbing over the curve of his hip, from the bones to the sides of his ass, back and forth. He swivels in his chair, just enough to escape Hermann’s touch.

“We can’t fuck, dude,” Newt tells him with what he hopes is an acceptably repentant expression. “I just got inked.”

Hermann does the buggy android thing again, looking surprised and curious and horny and disappointed, all in at least three different ways and in the span of a second. Newt smiles apologetically at him and pats the hand that still lingers on his knee. Hermann’s eyes shoot down, eyeing the soft, worn fabric of his sweatpants.

“Tentalus?” Hermann asks quietly, his eyebrows pinched in the world's tiniest frown. His hand hasn't left Newt’s knee.

“Yeah, duh?” It was the most recent attack, and a deployment from _their_ ‘dome, so yeah. Definitely going on Newt. “Wanna see?”

Hermann huffs a little. “You usually don’t ask,” he says, and yeah, that’s true, Newt might have lost his shirt a few times to show Hermann the bloody, inky mess of a fresh tattoo under cellophane.

See, like, even when Hermann talks he doesn't talk, not really. Not when it comes to the thing they weren't talking about, anyway, any aspect of it, which was sort of understandable given that the very nature of the thing they didn’t talk about was that they did _not_ talk about it. It was a little bit the entire point.

So Newt doesn't ask, just shimmies his pants down to his knees and spreads his legs to show Hermann: hues of deep red and all shades of blue, some veering into green, the starkly darker lines of Tentalus. He had earned his name because of the long tentacles that are sprawling over the sides of Newt’s right thigh. He knows this. He doesn't look back down once Hermann’s eyes are on his thigh, focusing on his face instead, the trembling of his lips, the shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks, the darting of his eyes.

“I wanted to get started on my thighs, and those fucking tentacles, _dude_ , he didn’t make it out the water but I don’t know how they would have behaved on land and now we’ll _never_ know, you know?”

Like he often does when Newt starts talking about kaiju, Hermann only lets out a noncommittal little “Mh,” smoothing the fabric of Newt’s sweatpants where it bunched up at his knees. “When did this happen?”

“Sunday afternoon.” Newt runs a light hand over the cellophane. “So like, four days ago if today is We-Thursday morning? It’s fine, but I shouldn't, you know. Apply friction. Or have friction applied.”

“No friction,” Hermann echoes—and that’s not-talking, again, right here—before he runs his hand up Newt’s left thigh, slowly. Midway to the top, he stops abruptly to stare at Newt like a deer in headlights. “Unless you don't—”

Newt laughs and takes Hermann’s wrist to push his hand up, letting go when Hermann obediently slides his fingertips just under the hem of his boxers. “Hermann, come on, have I ever _not_ ,” he tells him, “I just know you get grabby.”

“ _I do not_ —”

“It’s cool! I like it!” Newt throws his hands up, first in a pacifying gesture, then, when it seems like a much better plan, to grab Hermann’s face and guide him down to kiss him. “Do you want me to blow you?” he asks.

Hermann blushes, honest to God _blushes_ , like Newt hasn't stuffed the seven inches of his feeldoe up his ass on numerous occasions. He knows there isn’t anything stuck up Hermann’s ass unless someone put it there for Hermann to gasp and groan at every hit against his prostate, and that someone is usually Newt himself, so. There's no reason to blush, really. It’s sort of bizarrely endearing.

Hermann _blushes_ , fucking blushes, nearly ten years into The Thing and two years into the other thing, which they didn't talk about, so, zip—blushes so hard Newt can feel how warm his cheeks are when he gets a really good grab on his face and presses a dry kiss to his mouth. Every time, Hermann lets out this little sigh; every time, Newt uses the opportunity to slot their mouths better on the second kiss. He sucks a little on Hermann’s bottom lip, because it always makes Hermann emit the faintest whine ever. Newt groans, something in his belly going warm and liquid so fast he can feel his abdominal muscles clench on instinct. Hermann is grabbing his hips, because _obviously_ he is, so Newt takes Hermann’s hand off his right hip blindly and brings it to his own jaw instead. It’s a slippery slope from Hermann touching his hips to Hermann running his palms all over Newt’s thighs, or scratching the blunt edge of his nails down their front.

Immediately, Hermann slots his hand in place, his pinkie and ring finger curled under Newt’s jaw, middle finger under his ear, index over, and his thumb running over Newt’s cheek, his chin, his lips. It feels like a physicist thing, that Hermann has searched for and found where the knots of his knuckles fit best on Newt, how he needs to place his hand so the tip of his middle finger rests in the little crook where Newt’s jaw meets his skull; kind of like how sometimes Hermann touches the line where their mouths connect, softly.

When he does it this time, Newt pulls away and turns just enough to let Hermann’s thumb slide into his mouth, slick and warm and sensitive from kissing. He sets his hands on Hermann’s narrow hips, pushes him carefully until he sits on the edge of Newt's desk, and bites his thumb playfully before looking back up at Hermann.

He’s fussing with his leg, moving it around experimentally with a hand under his knee, and Newt replaces it with his own. “Hey,” he says, rolling a little closer to allow Hermann to rest his foot on the side of the chair, his calf secure between Newt’s body and the armrest. “Bee-jay?”

“For goodness’ sake,” Hermann mutters, looking up at the ceiling like he’s asking God to help him get through getting his dick sucked by his coworker.

Newt laughs a little at him, kicking off his pants and getting started on Hermann’s belt. Who knows who else would suck off Hermann Gottlieb? Newt isn't one to deprive him of getting as much as he could for as long as he could.

“Usually guys are a little more excited at the idea of getting a blowjob, Hermann,” Newt says when he has Hermann’s slacks open and a hand inside his worn briefs. He pulls them down with his other hand, tucking the white cotton under Hermann’s sack.

Hermann breathes above him, not quiet at all, raspy and gasping. “Don’t I look excited?” he asks dryly.

Just to be contrary, Newt scrunches up his face and tilts his head to the side. He laughs at Hermann’s suppressed, indignant little screech; laughs and laughs until he fills up his mouth with Hermann’s half-hard cock. Then he has to pull away to snicker a little when Hermannbreathes in sharply, like he’s about to dive underwater, but he makes up for it by placing long, wet kisses on the underside. Newt shifts in his seat as he jerks Hermann off slowly, mouthing at the plump head of his little dick, arching his back to try and rock against the chair better.

He moans a little when the seam of his boxers lines up just right with his clit, rocking with purpose as he licks at Hermann’s slit, cradles his balls in his hands. It sends a little jolt of pleasure down Newt’s belly when Hermann just moans back, his hips twitching feebly to feed his cock between Newt’s lips. Something clatters softly behind Hermann, and Newt opens his eyes in time to see him push away a handful of pencils and supplies his hand has just landed on.

Newt pulls off to laugh at him again. “How many times,” he not-asks, turning his head to mouth at Hermann’s balls and look up at him. He likes it there, between Hermann’s legs, the heaviness of his dick on Newt’s cheek, the scent of his musk and sweat in his nose. “Hair, dude.”

He also likes being between Hermann’s legs because it’s pretty much the only way to get him to do what he asks. “Do you laugh at _everyone_ you shag?” Hermann asks in a hiss while his nervous fingers slide in Newt’s hair.

“For the tenth time, nah,” Newt mumbles against Hermann’s hard cock as he slowly sucks kisses the short way up the stout shaft to the swollen head. “Just you.”

They’re both silent—Newt because he sucks down again, bobbing his head up and down steadily, and Hermann probably because he’s getting his dick sucked. Or brooding. Or numbering. Though from the raspy, irregular way he’s breathing, how he’s carding his fingers through Newt’s hair just on the right side of roughly, pulling on the strands when Newt takes him all the way down, Hermann’s probably having a real wicked time getting his dick sucked.

And never let it be said that Newt doesn’t have a real wicked time sucking dick. He’s growing wet in his boxers, the fabric getting slick with it and allowing the raised seam to slide easily against his erection. The chair squeaks a little when Newt rocks harder against it, his lower back growing sore even as his mouth floods with saliva at the goodness of it all, Hermann’s cute, hard cock filling his mouth and his nails scratching Newt’s scalp. Distantly, he feels Hermann’s right leg shake spasmodically where it rests against the side of his chest. Newt runs a gentle hand up and down Hermann’s thigh, sucks hard, rocks harder, and shivers when Hermann runs his knuckles over the shell of his ear.

Newt opens his eyes to look up, managing to briefly meet Hermann’s eyes before he turns away sharply, lips parted but tense. He makes a disapproving little noise when Newt pulls off, shushed by Newt’s croaky voice and his hand curling around Hermann’s slick cock.

“C’mon, look at me?” Newt coaxes while he jerks Hermann off slowly. He receives a minute shake of the head in answer, raspy pants when he screeches softly at Hermann and goes faster. “Why d’you never look?”

The reply only comes once Newt has one of Hermann’s balls in his mouth, playing with the weight of it on his tongue. “It feels obscene.” Newt cracks open one eyelid to look up at Hermann, leaning back on one hand and the other still in Newt’s hair, his head turned to the right with a sort of resigned resolve Newt finds entirely inappropriate (and a little insulting) to wear in bed. Desk. Whatever.

“ _Obscene_?” Newt echoes when he pulls off, mouthing at the saliva-slick skin of Hermann’s sack. He likes Hermann, really, he does. No one else says that kind of shit with Newt between their legs. He’s all kinds of priceless.

Hermann makes a little sigh as Newt fits his nose and his mouth at the root of his dick; nods. His fingers curl in Newt’s hair. “It looks… Crude,” he adds breathily, hips twitching a little. Newt looks up at him again, the sharp lines of his bones, the fan of his bottom lashes turned dramatic by the way he keeps his eyes shut. “Pornographic.”

“Yeah?”

There's an audible click when Hermann swallows, his fingers gripping tighter. “Yes.”

Newt rocks harder against the chair, arching his back and his neck to let Hermann’s hard, sticky cock rest on his flushed face. He likes feeling the weight of it here, the skin hot against his sensitive lips. He mouths at the shaft, lips stretching into a smile on their own when Hermann’s cockhead leaks a little smear of precome on Newt’s cheekbone. “ _Fuck,_ that’s hot.”

“What are you— _oh_ –” Hermann gasps as Newt circles his thumb and index fingers around the root of his dick to keep him in place as he drags his face lightly along the length of it. Hermann pulls on his hair, jerks his hips forward. “You’re impossible.”

“Improbable,” Newt corrects absently. Every time Hermann pulls at his hair, it sends a shock of delight down his spine straight into his gut, and he rocks his hips harder, his pelvic floor clenching around the very obvious emptiness inside him.

“ _What_?” Hermann sounds bewildered, and when Newt looks up in surprise, his lips a breath away from his cockhead, Hermann doesn't look away.

Newt blinks at him. “Improbable, not impossible?” It seems weird to ask for clarification _now_ , when Newt could be sucking him off instead, but Hermann’s weird. “Impossible means I’m not possible, like, that my existence can’t be, but clearly that’s false, because I’m here, so. Improbable. Not impossible.”

Even when Newt starts jerking him off again, Hermann doesn't look away.

“You—why— _Newton_.” Hermann yanks on his hair, so Newt closes his mouth and blinks stupidly at him. “Believe it or not, I’m _extremely_ conscious of your existence,” he hisses, cheeks and dick all pink, and fuck, he’s really cute, especially when he pulls his hand away from Newt’s hair to pinch the bridge of his own nose instead, “Particularly when you decide to correct my grammar with my prick in your hand.”

Before he can think, Newt pipes up, “Lexicon, not grammar.”

Hermann stares at him with his hand mid-air, frozen in motion. Newt smiles sheepishly. “ _Why_?” Hermann asks quietly, slowly, so Newt shrugs and starts moving his hand again. Despite all the big talk and airs, Hermann hasn’t softened a bit, and he lets out a long breath when Newt takes him back in his mouth, like it’s a relief.

Maybe it is. At least that way it’s full.

Blindly, Newt grabs at Hermann’s elbow, running his hand down his forearm to find his wrist and bring his hand back to his hair. Hermann makes a little noncommittal sound but threads his fingers through Newt’s hair again, his nails scraping against his scalp.

For a while things are back to normal—Newt gets a little lost in taking Hermann to the root over and over, his swollen cockhead pushing against Newt’s soft palate, making his throat seize up at the dizzying threat of more dick being forced down, then relax as no more than a slick slide of precome and saliva goes down. Blowing Hermann makes Newt feel like ablowjob rockstar, and totally not like a dude who’s made someone lose their erection once because he couldn't stop gagging after taking it a little too deep. Hermann fits in his mouth just right, just the perfect size to tease and make Newt’s eyes water if he stays all the way down for a little while.

“ _Newt_ ,” Hermann groans when he does just that, and Newt blinks a few times before looking up, swallowing to let his throat play close to the sensitive glans. “Newt,” he repeats, not turning away, not closing his eyes, “You’ll be the death of me.”

There’s fingers on Newt’s cheek, then Hermann’s thumb swiping over his cheekbone and sliding into his mouth tightly alongside Hermann’s cock. Newt groans feebly, feeling a little dizzy with arousal, and he slowly pulls off to hear the _pop_ of his mouth as it leaves Hermann’s erection. His thumb follows with Newt’s mouth, tracing over the corner of his open mouth, the swell of his abused lips. Newt kisses the pad of it, his eyelids fluttering as Hermann keeps thumbing at him like he’s a well-read book, his sensitive flesh dumbly registering every ridge of Hermann’s fingerprints. In Newt’s soaked boxers, his clit pulses needily, his cunt squeezing reflexively. He gives Hermann’s thumb another kiss.

“I'm sorry we can’t fuck,” Newt says, sliding his fist up and down Hermann’s spit-slit cock.

Hermann frowns down at him, rubs over Newt’s lips as if he could take the words off of them. “Don’t say that.”

“No, I mean—” Newt laughs a little, presses a kiss to the head of Hermann’s dick. “Not like I owe you pussy or some shit.” Something twists itself into a knot in his lower belly when he repeats, “I’m _sorry_ we can’t fuck.”

“ _Oh_ —oh,” Hermann breathes, eyelids fluttering as his cock twitches, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I’m sorry as well.”

His thumb strokes the corner of Newt’s mouth again, and Newt turns a little to kiss it, once, twice, lips pursing then spreading into a smile. “Makes up for it though, doesn’t it?” He asks against Hermann’s thumb before turning his attention back to his cock, chancing a look up at Hermann. He’s watching—shiftily, like he’s planning on shoplifting the blowjob and making a break for it, but watching nonetheless—with his dark eyes at half-mast, his pretty lips parted, his fingers at Newt’s jaw, and generally making a nuisance of himself looking like something that makes Newt throb and leak against the seam of his boxers. It doesn't help anything when Hermann, the fucker, slides his thumb inside Newt’s mouth and uses the twin hold he has on his jaw to push him down gently ( _bastard_ ) mouth first on his cock.

Newt goes down agreeably, because why wouldn't he? Herm— _Doctor_ _Hermann Gottlieb_ , that’s the good shit—is digging the blunt end of his thumbnail into the inside of Newt’s cheek to literally pull him on his cock like a goddamn fish on a hook. It makes his clit swell happily, and small, guttural moans rise up from his throat. With Hermann’s thumb still snug between his molars and his cheek, and his fingernails digging into the stubbly skin of his jaw, Newt can't get a nice, tight seal on Hermann’s dick. He can't block the sounds and they come out wet and filthy, little _agh-ah-ngh-ah_ s interrupted by the sloppy noise of his tongue on Hermann. Newt’s lips are dry and aching, his cunt is wet and aching, and Hermann’s thumb tastes faintly of chalk and ash. Newt is right where he wants to be.

Almost. He keeps moving his mouth and rolling his hips and looks up slowly, his eyes going from Hermann’s soft, untrimmed pubic hair to his sweater and then his collar (top button _undone_ , did Hermann dress all slutty for Newt, that’s precious) to finally find his eyes over the dramatic knife-edge of his cheekbones.

“Newton,” Hermann murmurs, so low Newt can’t assign a tone to it. His eyes flicker down to Newt’s lips and his cock throbs on his tongue, so Newt does his best to suck around him. It’s loud and wet and Hermann’s nails dig deeper. “ _Newt_ ,” he repeats, which makes Newt’s doubt that he’s soaked through his boxers even more plausible, “Oh, would you look at that…”

Hermann’s eyes stay on his mouth. When he pulls his thumb out slowly, Newt stills to feel it slide down, then resumes bopping his head up and down. He feels drunk on it, brain barely registering Hermann still, _still_ thumbing at his lips, the corner, the seam of them; but body feeling it all at once. Everywhere Hermann’s fingers touch him, it sends a shock of electricity down his spine, something gorgeous and liquid and warm that makes Newt long for better touch or for fullness. Hermann gets grabby—case in point and thumb in mouth—and Newt likes it. Really likes it.

They don’t talk about the thing.

Instead Hermann pushes at the corner of Newt’s lips to slide his thumb in his mouth alongside his cock again, feeling the hardness of himself and the slick heat of Newt’s tongue in his saliva-soaked mouth. It makes Newt think about Hermann doing the same when fucking him, one or two fingers along with his erection inside Newt’s cunt. He's never done that before. He’s felt for where their bodies meet, but this is the first time he does something like this. It makes Newt wish he had something inside of him, even just a plug to sit and grind down on, just some kind of fullness.

Not that Newt isn’t going to come anyway.

“Newt,” Hermann rasps out, lazy blowjob-stupid eyes on him and his mouth, “Oh— _ah_ —may I—your mouth—”

Pretty sure Hermann’s already _oh, ah-_ ing his mouth, but Newt nods anyway. There isn’t much from Hermann he refuses. Would refuse. It hasn’t actually come up yet.

Hermann tightens his hold on his jaw just a little and pushes him almost off his cock. Reflexively, Newt replaces his mouth with his hand, and mumbles around Hermann’s thumb, “Tell me ‘hat you want.”

For a second Newt thinks Hermann won’t answer. His face is doing the emotional decathlon again. Then he releases his hold on Newt, just long enough to fit his hand to Newt’s spit-covered chin instead. His thumb slides back home, the pad of it slowly stroking Newt’s tongue.

“I want to come in your mouth,” Hermann says, voice low, cheeks red, “Right there.” He pushes a little on Newt’s tongue, touches his teeth, his lips, even the silky underside of his tongue.

Newt’s erection is going to short-circuit his brain. It’s already dimming the lights. He gives Hermann’s glans a good suck and drops his jaw, lets Hermann push against his sensitized lips first with his fingers, then his cock, then both. Newt jerks him off fast, keeps on the same steadily increasing rhythm with which he’s rocking against the chair. Where they’re holding his chin, Hermann’s fingers feel too hot, the webbing-like skin between his hand and his thumb stretched taut to keep the latter in Newt’s mouth. He’s leaking steadily now, not as much as Newt but enough to taste and salivate at.

“Goodness,” Hermann mutters.

Yeah.

The first rope of come to hit his tongue makes Newt jolt and moan—something raw and broken and quick—and start to come. He rides it out with intent, blinks so he won’t miss Hermann’s parted lips, his dark, dark, dark eyes, the pinch at his eyebrows. Every twitch of Hermann’s body, every sound that tumbles out of his mouth—choked-off gasps and high little whines and low rasps—makes sparks go off madly inside of Newt. His orgasm is slow, drawn-out as he mindlessly tongues at Hermann’s too-sensitive dick. His come tastes like cigarettes, but Newt swallows it down anyway, choked and loud because Hermann won’t take his fingers out of his mouth even once his cock is spent. He’s breathless, sliding his shaky thumb through saliva and sperm and rubbing it on Newt's tongue. Newt closes his eyes while Hermann prods at him, and wrings a second orgasm out of the aftershocks just to be greedy, just because he can.

Newt’s boxers _are_ soaked, sliding too much even at the seam, but he’s so sensitive he’s back there in seconds, shouting even as Hermann holds his chin. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he squeaks out as Hermann’s thumb digs into his bottom lip, riding the rising wave and shivering at it rolls him into its crashing, “Oh, fuck, _Hermann_.” He laughs. He shakes. He kisses Hermann’s thumb.

Hermann kisses him.

With the way he has to fold himself to do it, it can’t be a comfortable position, and his thumb is still at the corner of Newt’s mouth, but Hermann kisses him anyway. He’s red and breathless, panting between short kisses, his fingers and his leg trembling. Newt kisses him back, rubs a hand on his thigh and uses the other to pull Hermann’s briefs up over his softening cock. It stopped being awkward a long time ago. It’s not like they could beat their own Worst Pillow Talk record even if they tried.

Which is a Thing They Super Really Absolutely Do NOT Talk About. It’s not even a thing. Newt doesn't even talk about it with himself, and he and himself usually have pretty great conversations about everything from nuclear semiotics to Hermann’s cute ears. Water under the bridge and all that, except there’s no water and no bridge. There’s no river in Egypt. Not a single one.

Newt helps Hermann lower his right leg to the floor, keeps on pressing kisses to his mouth. “You good?” he asks him while he rubs his palm over Hermann’s hip, kneads at his thigh muscles briefly.

“He asks if I’m good,” Hermann mutters lazily, too sated to school the small winces of pain he makes as he slowly starts sliding off Newt’s desk. He stands in front of him, rumpled and red and sweaty, smelling like jizz and looking nut-happy. “Are you?” he asks, glancing at Newt’s covered tattoo, the sheen of sweat on his body, the wet spot on his boxers.

“Great,” Newt croaks out. He does Hermann’s fly up for him, grabs a handful of his ass—pretty much the whole dish—and kisses his belly. “Real great. Hella neat.”

Newt rolls away to tug his sweatpants back up. The pits of his knees and arms have grown uncomfortable damp. “Hella neat,” Hermann repeats dryly, stepping away with an eye roll. He straightens what he’s knocked over on the desk, glances at Newt’s computer screen. “You haven’t submitted your report yet?”

“Uh, was a bit busy?” Newt screeches back at Hermann’s scandalized tone, wheeling himself closer to the computer as Hermann grabs his cane and stalks off towards his quarters at half parade speed. _Masks, Respiratory, Blue-Resistant_. “You literally blinked _blow me_ in morse code at me until I did.”

Hands tight both around his door handle and his cane, Hermann turns around long enough to flash his excellent blush and thirteen different facial expressions at Newt. “I most certainly did not!”

“It wasn’t all out the goodness of my libido,” Newt yells back, and Hermann slams his bunk door shut in answer. Newt grins at his grimly blinking cursor.

Yeah, Hermann’s weird.

**Author's Note:**

> On Twitter [here](http://twitter.com/callmealois).


End file.
